


Jawline

by joonfired



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Mandalorian, F/M, Fever, Fever Dreams, ManDadlorian, Mandalorian Culture, Mandomera, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, POV Alternating, Parent-Child Relationship, Sharing Body Heat, Sick Character, Soft Omera, The Creed?? Mando don't know that here, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Sexual Tension, actually he does he just kinda ignores it, the helmet comes off in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21706903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonfired/pseuds/joonfired
Summary: In which the Mandalorian has a fever andthingsoccur.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 243





	Jawline

**Author's Note:**

> tbh this all came from a tipsy thought trail about catching a glimpse of the Mando's jawline
> 
> and then I decided to throw the 'ole fever trope at it for extra tension

His arrival was first a prickle across the back of Omera’s neck, a faint sense of unease drawing her eyes up from the submerged krill net and towards the dimming burn of the skyline. And then the sound of engines, rumbling closer, sending murmurs of concern throughout the farmers.

“Who is it?”

“What do they want?”

“Why are they here?”

But while there was an edge of panic along the questions, Omera was calm. It was as if her heart already knew who was coming.

Or maybe she’d always known the guarded man who wore his heart so unguarded would return.

The ship appeared a moment later, wobbling over the treeline and making for one of the side clearings. The battered cargo vessel landed awkward and shaky, as if whoever was piloting held very little control over it.

Omera barely heard the curious voices as she dropped her net, lifted her skirts, and ran for the ship.

“Mom!” Winta cried out, but Omera motioned for her to stay with the rest of the farmers.

She reached the ship just as the hatch began to lower, steam gusting out of the mechanics in sputtering hisses. Darkness yawned in front of her, followed by the scent of warm rust and recycled air. There were stumbling sounds inside the ship’s hold which drew nearer until she saw him.

He moved slowly, painfully. One hand was braced against the left side of the ship; the other cradled the child who still hadn’t grown any bigger since they’d left. There were slashes in the Mandalorian’s unarmored material, revealing ugly red wounds.

As soon as she realized the terrible condition he must be in, Omera rushed forward. She reached him at the top of the ramp, hands coming instinctively up to the scratched surface of his pauldrons and he leaned into her touch. Whether this was unintentional or instinctive, she could not tell.

But when he moved the child towards her, the meaning was absolute: he wanted her to take him.

Affection surged through Omera that he still considered this place his sanctuary. She took the child, who looked up at her with those large, innocent and ancient eyes. It settled warmly in her arms, tucked in a brown, coarse-textured blanket.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian whispered.

And then he collapsed.

“Oh!” Omera gasped, crouching next to him. Her eyes ran frantically, uselessly over his armored body as she clutched the child. “Don’t — ”

She could not bring herself to speak her sudden fear. He could not return only to leave again permanently.

“I’m still here.”

His voice was thin and wavering, like a dying flame. But his words were the reassurance she needed.

By this time, Winta and the others had come to the ship when they saw who it belonged to. They gathered at the bottom of the ramp, peering up with growing worry.

“Hold him, please,” Omera told Winta, passing the child to her daughter.

“Caben! Stoke!” she called for the two villagers, and then pointed at another standing nearby, “And you! Come help me.”

As the trio approached, the Mandalorian reached for and found Omera’s hand. His gloved fingers squeezed her calloused ones tightly in gratitude he seemed too weak to vocalize. She returned the gesture before the village men reached them, and then together they hoisted the beskar-plated man.

“Take him to my barn,” Omera said.

She held the Mandalorian’s head and part of his shoulder area, one arm looped under his neck and the other underneath his right side. The other men held his feet, legs, and torso respectively, and she was pleased to see how careful they were not to jostle their burden.

Winta and the rest of the villagers followed behind in a concerned cluster, murmuring their worries in a soft hum. But when they reached Omera’s barn, she waved the villagers away. Only Winta and the child remained after the huddle gradually trailed away back to their tasks.

When the Mandalorian was set down on the blanketed pile of straw he’d last used, the three men stood awkwardly by. Caben’s fingers pulled at a stray thread on the end of his tunic, Stoke chewed his nails, and the other, Potu, just stared at Omera.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asked.

Caben and Stoke nodded their inclusion to this inquiry.

“We will do our best to see that happen, won’t we?” Omera replied.

Suddenly the Mandalorian groaned and sat up precariously. “Where’s the kid?”

All the love he held for the small child was so evident in his pained voice. His helmeted gaze swung around, inspecting the barn almost frantically . . . until he saw the child held in Winta’s arms where she stood peering in from the doorway.

Relief shuddered through the armored man. He made to fall back, but Omera moved forward and put a supportive arm around his shoulders.

“Bring me cloths and warm water, bacta, and soup,” she said to the three men still watching the proceedings in a curious group. “And then you need to get back to the ponds. One man in need should not let us forget others who need us, too.”

The harvest was not truly important at this time of year, but she could not begin the delicate process of tending to the Mandalorian with so many eyes on them.

After they’d shuffled away, Omera gestured for Winta to close the door. At first her daughter hesitated, clearly worried in many ways, but eventually closed the door.

“It’s nice to see you again,” she heard Winta say as the two children walked away. “Don’t worry about your dad; he’ll be fine because my mom is very good at helping people.”

Omera exhaled a soft laugh at her daughter’s exaggerated optimism. She was no great healer, but she hoped her skills would be enough to bring this man back from whatever brink he hovered upon. 

She instinctively went to touch his forehead to check for a fever, but only as her knuckles brushed cool steel did she realize the true difficulty of this situation. It would be so easy to remove the Mandalorian’s armor in the name of healing, but she knew that was a path she could not take.

Instead, Omera turned to the torn gashes in his clothes. She moved her fingers oh-so-carefully to the biggest slash near his shoulder, the edges of the black cloth even darker with fresh and drying blood.

Her fingertips brushed the frayed tear in the material.

And the Mandalorian lunged up, his hands gripping her shoulders painfully.

Omera’s hands went defensively for his wrists before she caught herself, knowing better than to struggle.

“It’s just me,” she said quietly. “I’m not going to remove your armor. I just need to tend to your wounds.”

He was breathing hard through his helmet. She summoned the most soothing expression she could muster as she lifted her hands from his wrists, holding them palm-forward in a submissive gesture. He began to loosen his grip, his shoulders lowering from their tense, fighting stance.

Of course this was when Potu opened the barn door without warning, the requested supplies in his arms.

“Wait!” Omera cried as the Mandalorian went for his holstered blaster.

Potu froze with a strangled shriek, the supplies tumbling from his arms. Omera stood in front of the blaster’s direction, hands lifting once more to show they weren’t trying to harm or attack him.

“It’s us,” she said. “Let us help you.”

That seemed to filter through whatever haze lay over the armored man, as he slowly began to lower his blaster. His helmet tilted slightly at an angle of curiosity and Omera took this as a sign to step closer.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the blaster clattering to the floor. “I just . . .”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said, sitting back down next to him. She looked into the emotionless visor of his helmet, knowing the man was beneath the masking steel. “You can relax here.”

“Where’s the kid?” he asked again.

“Your boy is safe,” Omera assured him.

He nodded and then shuddered with a pained groan. And this time when she went to inspect his wound, he didn’t move as she peeled back the torn cloth to reveal skin tinged with an angry, infected red.

“Bacta. Now.” She held her hand out towards Potu.

After a moment of confused scuffling, the bacta medstrips were in her hand. She began carefully applying them to the Mandalorian’s wound, glancing up on instinct to see how he was handling the pain.

She saw nothing but beskar.

“I’m fine,” he murmured. Then he looked over at Potu, who was anxiously stacking the supplies near Omera.

“Thank you, Potu,” Omera said.

The villager nodded and then scuttled away with obvious relief.

“I’m . . . going to need . . . more than bacta,” the Mandalorian said, his body beginning to slump.

When he fell back, Omera could not get him to speak again. He was still breathing, but she slipped her fingers under the material of his glove to find the pulse in his wrist beating too fast against skin that was too warm.

~ ~ ~

He was burning alive in his own funeral pyre.

He trembled and sweated and  _ ached _ , weighted down to whatever surface he lay upon. He opened his eyes but could not comprehend what he saw —a woman’s face, sun-honey skin and kind eyes.

He wondered if she was his mother.

Why was she here? His mother was dead, gunned down by soulless machines programmed by soulless men.

But that did not stop him reaching for her, longing for the comfort he instinctively craved in this moment of fevered weakness.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice filtering to his ears across an inexplicable distance.

He squinted at her, diagrams ghosting over his vision. His breath gusted hot against his nose and lips as he reached a hand for his head, only to find it larger and rounder than he knew it to be.

“What . . .” he muttered, trying to move himself but burdened with a cumbersome weight.

Beskar. He was wearing beskar, the symbol and treasure and pride of the people who’d taken him in. His mind told him the silvered metal was his creed but his heart called it a prison.

And his body suffocated.

“Get it off,” he pleaded, pulling at the metal fused to his chest. The request became panic. “Getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetito—”

“Hush now, hush now,” the woman said, pressing down on his shoulders. “Rest.”

He growled and went to shove her away, but the fire burning in her eyes gave him hesitation.

“You are delirious,” she said calmly. “This armor is your religion, your life, your Way. I cannot take that from you.”

“But that is what I am asking of you,” he replied, now straining against her. “I cannot breathe.”

“Yes, you can.”

Yes, he could. But not freely.

His skin shuddered and burned in a fire he could not put out under the stifling weight of his armor. He closed his eyes and waited for the flames to consume him and end his misery, but they kept burning, kept torturing.

Suddenly there was a cool touch against his wrist, slender fingers encircling his pulse. He opened his eyes with a startled gasp, pulling his hand away instinctively.

The woman began unbuckling his armor, starting with the large piece caging his lungs. Cool air rushed in shivering gusts over his sweat-damp clothes when she lifted the beskar, setting it somewhere aside with a respectful care that made his heart twist with an odd emotion he could not name.

Soon, he could move his limbs, but they were still leaden with sickness and pain. The woman lifted his shirt with a frown, her fingers ghosting icy over his ribs.

“You are not a man,” she murmured. “You are a patchwork of wounds.”

Some part of him laughed, but he did not know if it was in his thoughts or with his mouth. But she still smiled as if she knew, as if she heard.

And yet the helmet stayed, the one thing that remained buried true despite the fever—that it must stay.

It could not stay.

He was freer, but he still could not breath. His thoughts pounded heavy against his skull and his vision spun with the digital view he did not remember how to disable. He did not know if he even could disengage the helmet’s programming.

“I won’t tell,” he said.

The woman looked at him, and now she was familiar. He knew her name and  _ ached _ for her.

“There is nothing to tell,” Omera said. “I have not seen your face. I believe you still walk true on your Way, Mandalorian.”

“And yet you once tempted me from it,” he whispered. “I would not stop you if you tempted me now.”

~ ~ ~

If she had tempted him first, now she was the one being tempted.

It should not affect her so much, Omera told herself. He was delirious and thus unbalanced, speaking recklessly and without true meaning. She should not think much of his words and instead focus on caring for him as she would with any other in need of her aid.

But she still wanted.

Without his armor he appeared vulnerable . . . but not helpless. The beskar no longer concealed the true shape of him, powerful legs and broad shoulders sprawled before her. And while he still wore the dark undergarments, they were not so effective of a barrier to her curious eyes that she could not stop from wandering.

Firstly there was the almost obscene nudity of his gloveless hands, long fingers and calloused palms that lay open and restless against the bed. Then there was the fevered pulse racing in his wrists and the colorful expanse of bruises on his torso that did nothing to hide the battle-shaped muscles under his gold-browned skin.

And when she did not reply to his feverish words, the Mandalorian tipped his head up with a sigh, revealing a paler stretch of throat with a pulse that matched the tempo of his wrists. A little further, she caught a glimpse of his jawline . . . sharply angled and dusted with stubble and so, so tempting.

It had been so long since she had longed for someone like this.

“You need to rest,” she repeated, keeping herself from straying too far down the path her thoughts wished her to take.

“I need many things,” he replied a bit petulantly.

“What do you need?” she could not stop herself from asking.

He laughed again at her words, more bitterly than the first time when she had labeled him as being more injuries than a man. And that was when, even before he spoke, she knew the answer he would give.

“You,” the Mandalorian said. “But I am not sure if I feel more want or need for you.”

Omera’s breath caught in her throat and she felt fevered herself now in this heated moment caught in a darkened room where midnight confessions were torn from lonely hearts.

“The one thing I know to be wholly forbidden,” he murmured, seemingly speaking more to himself than to her, “is now the one thing I wish to cast aside.”

“If it is forbidden,” Omera said, “do not leave that. One moment, one time of feverish thoughts should not sway you so easily.”

“No, it shouldn’t.” He reached for her, fever-hot fingers curling around her wrist. “And yet . . . I find myself swayed.”

He tugged her towards him and she let herself be drawn in until her forehead rested against the steel of his helmet. His other hand found her neck and brushed up the nape, fingertips slipping past her hairline and cradling her against him.

Omera closed her eyes and breathed, lifting her hands to his unarmored shoulders. He shuddered when her fingers brushed against the fever-heat of his skin and found the stubbled slope of his jaw. Her knuckles bumped against the edge of his helmet as she slid her hands underneath the beskar rim and into the dampened curls she discovered.

There was a faint hiss as his helmet began to lift from his neck.

She should have moved. She should have not given in to the temptation he whispered so intimately to her. She should not be swayed by slivers of skin and delirious wishes.

But she did nothing as he guided her hands up, up, up to push the helmet away from his head.

Omera opened her eyes, first finding the bearded shadow of his chin and jawline. The beskar soon revealed parted lips desperate for cool air, then a nose crooked from brokenness, cheekbones dented on side by a faint, curving scar . . . and then his eyes.

The helmet left his head and thumped to the ground, but Omera barely heard it.

His gaze glittered with fever but he still looked at her as if she was the sun and he wanted to be blinded. He looked at her like she was the ocean and he wanted to drown. He looked at her like she’d never remembered being seen before.

She wondered if this was how he’d always looked at her.

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna write a long-ass fic
> 
> but then decided why not break it up into chapters to be extra


End file.
